


Let's Play

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Babysitting, Clothed Frottage, First Time, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Neck Kissing, Playing with the Kids, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15845310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: After a surprising and brief kiss at the office, David simply has to know more about Nick's feelings for him. Unfortunately, the only opportunity he has for bringing this up is when the two wives go out and leave them babysitting four children for the night - resulting in a tale of Lego, Sticklebricks and forbidden love. Will they get their opportunity for a bit of fun before their wives come home? Or will they have to finish what they started later on?





	Let's Play

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2010 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the babysitting prompt at the uk_lolitics anon kink!meme.

"Lego?" Clegg had questioned him. "What's all that rubbish? I'll tell you what, Cameron: I'll bring a real toy... _Meccano_ was all the rage in my family."

 _"Yes,"_ David thought to himself, preening in the bathroom mirror. _"I always envisaged you'd be good with your hands."_ No; he couldn't say something like that. They were babysitting this evening for the girls, so they could go out and, quite frankly, he _had_ to behave. It wouldn't do for him to be flirting with his deputy in front of the kids - they might tell somebody for one - and, for two, he hadn’t even explained the birds and the bees yet. Imagine having to introduce a _third_ creature into that equation; and such a wily one as Nick, at that.  
  
They had shared, though both a concise and wordless affair, an intimate moment together in the office today. Without wanting to go into greater detail, their lips had brushed - okay, so they _had_ \- but Cameron was adamant they hadn’t _kissed_. Barely ever alone, sparing the existence of hundred or so cameras, the afternoon then brimmed with chance meetings and short-lived chats, and the right time to discuss this _kiss_ either never arised, or it never wanted to be addressed. So tonight would be the perfect opportunity (because of all the peace and quiet… oh, as if!) to bring up the issue of said unfinished business. David decided this whilst spritzing himself with a spray bottle he’d heard on the grapevine that Clegg had liked - refusing to acknowledge the implications behind what animal magnetism he clearly _hoped_ would occur, _should_ Nick catch a whiff of it.  
  
"I'm going now, dear," came a yodel from downstairs. And, after receiving the greatly anticipated text message from Miriam, Mrs. Cameron finally leapt from the seat in her teetering heels, holding freshly-painted fingernails of purple at distance from her summer dress. As one door closes, another one opens; no sooner had Sam slipped the latch from the bolted door, a forceful hand from the other side pushed it wide. With two children poised for action behind him, preparing at the first occasion to rugby tackle his wife - young Miguel being tended to by far more responsible folk - the once spy-hole-distorted vision revealed itself to be Nick Clegg, holding a stack of battered cardboard boxes, from Scrabble to Jenga. Jenga, in case you didn’t know the rules, was a game involving a tower of interlocking pieces which, in despite of their strong bonds, would fall down so much as anybody even _looked_ at them with menace. Rather akin to when Bercow shouted 'Order!' in the House of Commons.

"Ah," she smiled, silently thanking the heavens that it wasn't she who had to sift through all these toys. "You must be the children’s entertainer?"  
  
His socks padding sluggishly against the carpet, David half-stumbled, too eager to greet his deputy in what he would deem to be a far more dignified manner than his wife, he steadied himself against the banister. Blushing, he announced, "Hello, Nick."  
  
"Hi, David - I've brought the supplies," he grinned, seeing Sam leave over his shoulder. He seemed awfully aloof, but just what lied beneath his smile? And just _what_ was he trying to prove? The Cameron household had clearly enough children’s games as it was.  
  
"Come in, you three... Come in!"

Nancy and Arthur were squatting by the fireplace with many toys already out, including alphabet blocks, girly dolls and make-up, as well as the aforementioned Lego. David somehow struck Nick as the kind of person who could spend hours in Toys R Us - and that’s referring to when he _wasn't_ in the company of his kids. He could be so wide-eyed and naive on occasion; every colourful trinket displayed in the shop would no doubt hold his attention like a magpie. A fleeting dream of the Conservative politician speeding down the aisles on a skateboard or a go-kart became vividly lodged in his brain. _Or perhaps not._ After all, Cameron couldn't even cycle across London without togging up in shin-pads and a hi-visibility vest.

The tiny boy waved, before welcoming himself and the lads. "This is Thomas," he exclaimed, pointing to a train.  
  
"And this is Barbie," Nancy chipped in. "She's a damsel in distress." The expressionless, motionless figure was lying there, tied to the tracks in the most familiar blue string.  
  
"Now, now," David warned. "Don't use daddy's favourite tie in your games!" He recovered it in due haste, and much to Clegg's amusement. Everybody associated 'tory blue' with impending doom. Poor Barbie.  
  
"We're building a town," Arthur told Alberto, beckoning for him to sit down. "We're making the big buildings out of Duplo... and the smaller ones out of Lego... And look; this is where the Fat Controller sits - they didn't send us one in the set, so he's a Sticklebrick."  
  
Nick held the wide, plastic bricks and analysed them with scrutiny. Where was the skill in slotting together these silly squares; where was the work ethic? "I see you like these rubbish things," he observed, turning to Cameron with a cocked eyebrow. He snatched back his own box and emptied it out into the space before them. Its contents consisted of many girders of varying lengths, a miniature motor casing which housed six age-old double A's set to leak their acid and some odd-job tools.  
  
It later emerged why Meccano had fallen out of favour with both child and adult alike; what with the assembler needing a PhD in astro-mechanics, or having had to have studied aeronautical physics for at least five years at college. Antonio and Alberto were more than used to this and, by now, were giggling at their daddy, who was trying to club together two lumps of unidentifiable metal - like the piece of a jigsaw that wouldn't fit - and so you'd have to end up snipping the sides off with a pair of scissors. They'd grown bored of making such sculptures and contraptions hours ago, and were instead sharing their sweets with David's kids. There was sugar sprinkled by the bag-load all over the floor, and the hearth rug was a mass of sticky, gritty strands of chewing-gum covered hair. However, the hoover was not to make an appearance for a _very_ long time. Nick was _obsessed_ that this working engine model would be finished before the night was through.  
  
His hands were red-raw in his efforts. They throbbed and bled, though his pride did prevent him from locating a plaster or bandage. Somehow, he saw the ability to assemble such a boys' toy as a symbol of his own masculinity, and so he desired to flaunt it as a peacock would its feathers. The scars around his hands were those of a martyr who’d been nailed to the cross of his own embarrassment.  
  
"You hold this, Dave, and I should be able to..." he drifted off, deftly spinning the spanner in deliberation. Its edges were the perpetrator of many of his scratches. He should have given up, but frustration spurred him on. Why couldn't Cameron understand how to hold a simple nut and bolt? Remind Clegg never to ask for his assistance when trying to complete an actual DIY task.

Leading his friend by example, he slid his own hand over the top of his in genuine aid, eliciting a slight gasp from the MP. "Sorry," he whispered. But David wasn't flinching anymore - in fact, not at all - his skin warmed to the touch in more than just the physical sense, as he guided himself further and further into Nick's grasp, accidentally discarding the minor piece of silver in the process. The soft sound of it hitting the ground produced a spark between them and then an instant release.  
  
"You're not doing it right," Clegg stammered, stunned. What had just happened? They were holding hands like lovers, and now memories of the morning’s activities were filtering into his thoughts. He composed himself and, taking the flat strip with four equally spaced holes to one side, and the corresponding bit in the other - exhaled in the despair of his ineptness. "Like this," he demonstrated. Offering the parts forth, he was wowed as David held his hands again; silently, and with a smile, he cradled the Liberal's knuckles, which were battered from his vain attempts at manual labour. They were very sore, Nick would have agreed, but he wasn't a baby with a boo-boo. And he didn't need Cameron to kiss them better. Even if that's exactly what he _did_.  
  
"This is pointless, Nick - we both know what's _really_ going on."  
  
"David... I..." there was a protest from Clegg, who was, as usual, unnecessarily gesticulating. The flap of broken skin, raised from his earlier entanglement with the wrench, was pulled back during the exchange to evoke a yelp of pain. "Argh," he howled, through gritted teeth.  
  
"You're hurt," Cameron stated, eyes fixed upon him. "Who are you trying to impress, here: the kids, or me?" The tone of the situation had suddenly turned from the jovial, to the _serious_. “I know… I know that there’s _nothing_ feminine about you. I know you're not _you know_.”  
  
Wanting to relieve his friend of all discomfort, David began to help in the only way he knew how. That was, of course, discarding the first aid box - but that would have been far too boring, _wouldn't_ it? Bringing his partner's tender tips to the edge of his own mouth, without a second thought he wrapped his lips around them, securely.  
  
Nick hissed. He produced the very sound of a balloon deflating to nothing, "It stings so much..." Was there nothing cleverer he could have said? The swollen fingers were now fully engulfed in a foreign mouth, the wet fleshy folds holding the most pleasing sensation. Clegg assured himself that this feeling was not meant to be pleasurable. But in matter of fact, David Cameron was a drug far more effective than aspirin, paracetemol, ibuprofen, all rolled into one. His thoughtfulness, his care for him, was morphine, pumped directly into his veins.  
  
Drawing upwards, David removed the digits and allowed his bottom lip to drag against them as he did; they lied in the middle of his lip, falling neatly into the dimpled curvature. It was as if they had slotted into place - as if it was where they belonged - a brief, yet exciting encounter within the Tory mouth, which had our Democrat practically frothing at his.  
  
His eyes shifted to see the children now enthralled in another game, where they luckily hadn't noticed the altogether more adult game that was taking place between the pair of _them_. David winked, ever the devil, as he ushered them into Arthur's room to fetch down more toys. Blissfully oblivious they'd been, up until the point he had called over. And now Cameron was smirking at Clegg, scrambling for something beneath on the carpet.  
  
He lifted the glinting item to their eye-line, and gave a cheeky grin. "Screw?" he tittered.  
  
"What the...? What the hell's going through your mind?" the younger man uttered, finding at last, his voice - and a sudden urge to cross his legs. Being an unfortunate sufferer of pins and needles, he had been stretched out at length initially. His cock now starting to strain against the fly of his jeans, he realised this was a rather inappropriate reaction to have whilst babysitting.  
  
"You," David said. "You've been going through my mind... All the time; all _this_ time." Running a last lick of the tongue across Nick's rapped knuckles, he groaned, exasperated, and added. "I want you."  
  
"Oh, _God,_ I want you too! Look at what you've done to me though, you stupid twat?" Clegg cringed upon cursing; praying that, even after all of _this_ , the children wouldn't have overheard his foul language. "Couldn't you have found a better time to tell me you really _did_ fancy me?"  
  
"A better time than when our wives are both out? A better time than an evening where the pair of us are totally alone?"  
  
"Except for four screaming kids," the reality was sinking into the situation.  
  
They looked at one another, warily and in uncertainty, as the barrage of youngsters burst once again into the living room with all manner of cuddly assortments dangling from their limbs. "I have an idea," David cried, dashing to the kitchen cupboards before he could even finish his sentence; opening the doors one-by-one, and rooting through each of them to seemingly search for a vital piece. Amongst many of Sam's pregnancy presents was a baby-monitor. He showed it quickly to Nick, who could hardly wait for an excuse to leave, before walking over to the play area with it.

"Your father and I have some important business to take care of," David inadvertently winced at the innuendo of the phrase. "We should be no longer than ten minutes," he tacked on. But if the urgency of his need grew any greater, the timing of the session would surely be closer to _seconds_ , rather than minutes. He hummed, realising the desperation of his tone, and choked out a final command, "If you need us for anything; call us on _this._ "  
  
The four children could not have cared less - they nodded, sweetly and were, in honesty, secretly thrilled they could get away with whatever they wanted now - though little did they know, their _parents_ were thinking _exactly_ the same. Most of the time, it was almost as if the children were babysitting their dads anyway. After all, _they'd_ not managed to injure themselves to the stage of bleeding; nor had they spilled battery acid on their best sweaters; nor had they gotten into a fight over what was best out of yoyos and clackers. They were far too grown up for all of that. Sighing as soon as their backs was turned, Antonio lifted the one-way walkie talkie onto its side, and pretended it was a car.  
  
"Vrrroooommm!" his screeches could be heard across the hall as Cameron reached the top of the stairs, the other device in-hand. Nick was already there waiting for him, craving his presence.  
  
"What took you so long," he moaned, fiddling with the lock on the bedroom door - like an umbrella-less man who was caught in the rain and had forgotten his key.  
  
Hurtling backwards, the jutting shelf of the bed-edge met with the backs of Clegg's legs, and he powerlessly fell onto the duvet - his calf-muscles colliding with the immovable divan, strong pins were forced from under him, with another gentleman soon to follow. It was a metaphor for what was to come; Nick wasn't the kind to succumb to anything. He was the unflappable, keen and acute Liberal Democrat leader, with nerves and determination of steel, when in his _job_. However, that wasn't to say he wouldn't let somebody take the reins, should he allow them to, when _outside_ of it. David pinned his wrists to the pillow, writhing atop him to stake his claim. But then Nick hardly minded fighting against the strong-willed bottom of his colleague, which motioned in metric circles around the hardening mound of his groin. And by lunging sharply forwards, he effectively granted _that_ permission.  
  
"Got a struggler, have we?" David snorted, and couldn't have sounded sexy if he'd tried, as he teasingly tormented his prey.  
  
The junior of the couple bucked upwards in several short thrusts, in a bid for friction against Cameron's own clothed erection. "Oh, yes," he mocked. "Let me go..."  
  
"Mmmph, I've been thinking about doing this for-fucking- _ever_... Why would I let you go now, Clegg?"  
  
"Ohh... Dave," the notion of which made Nick wail with delight - and, as a pair of Liberal hands snaked over his rival's denim-clad arse, thumbing aimlessly at the rivets and cupping his cheeks as directly as possible by delving into the back pockets - he urged him to continue with this frantic dry-hump, squeezing his thighs together in erratic fashion. Cameron decided to crush a quick kiss to his neck... as if this wasn't _enough_ to get them into whole heaps of trouble when their wives came home; David wanted to _mark_ him as well. Clegg was more than aware that he wasn't wearing expensive aftershave at the beginning of the evening, and now it sure as heck smelt like he was.

"Don't - they'll know," he told him. But David wasn't listening, and Nick was hardly even positive he meant it. "Don't... Don't... Do--"  
  
As if by magic, the Gods intervened; the radio, which he'd fortuitously let slip aerial-side up and onto the floor, suddenly crackled and spluttered into life. They froze, solid statues, as the round speaker emitted a high-pitched whinny: "Daddy, daddy," they heard Nancy's voice cry. "Mummy and Auntie Miriam are home!"  
  
Cameron slumped onto Clegg's woollen, jumper-clad chest, inhaling sharply and defeated. "Coming!" he raised his tired head before chiming. _"If only,"_ he thought, afterwards.


End file.
